


To Live With The Dawn And The Dusk

by laetificat



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: Arthur and Charles in Colter, negotiating the matter of favors owed.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 7
Kudos: 134





	To Live With The Dawn And The Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my WIPs folder for literally 2 years, I'm so glad to finally have found an ending for it. I missed writing for these boys a lot.
> 
> The title comes from Eden Ahbez's 'Full Moon', a Charles/Arthur poem if ever I heard one.
> 
> Takes place towards the beginning of the game.

"Oughta put somethin’ on that."

Charles looked up, squinting a little against the low winter sun. He’d been examining his palm as they rode along the thin winding trail between the trees, flexing his fingers and wincing at the pull of the healing skin across the burn.

Arthur leaned towards him a little from his saddle, peering at Charles’ hand from under the shadowed ridge of his hat. The ember of his cigar flared, steam and smoke billowing out on the chill air as he settled back, apparently making up his mind about something. He rummaged for a moment in his jacket pocket and pulled out a small battered tin. He tossed it to Charles, who caught it reflexively with his good hand. 

"Boar grease and Bear’s Foot and some mint so it don’t smell like a pig’s ass," Arthur pointed out, turning his attention back to the trail. "Got the recipe from some Cherokee in trade for a couple bottles of moonshine. Supposed to help burns and such. Ain’t as fancy as that stuff from the store," he added, with a shrug and a flicker of a grin dancing around the edges of his mouth, "but it ain’t costin’ you anythin’ either, I suppose."

Charles turned the tin over. A portrait of a woman in repose was painted on the front, but the name of whatever it had originally held had long since rubbed off. It still held the heat from being close to Arthur’s body. 

"Thanks," he replied, tucking the tin away. "I guess I owe you."

Arthur glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, that smile still perched in the corner of his lips. "I guess you do."

He reached up to touch the rim of his hat in a salute, then kneed his horse to move ahead up the line. Charles watched him go, closing his hand on the memory of that brief warmth.

*

Colter, as it turned out, was a shell of a town barely worth the name.The blizzard they’d blown in on stacked snow up against windows and doors and made the search for dry firewood almost impossible. Poor Davey passed on and John Marston was eventually rescued, probably given more fanfare than his due seeing as he’d lost his horse and somehow ended up halfway up a mountain and ravaged by wolves to boot, but the gang needed something to be glad about and John was it. 

Charles wasn’t entirely sure about John, mostly because of the way Arthur’s jaw got set and his eyes flinty whenever the kid was nearby, but he was pleased enough to see someone come into camp alive instead of on the back of a wagon. 

The conditions were bad, the cold and darkness settling in until Charles felt he’d never get rid of the feel of it in his bones. Frost rimed their blankets in the mornings; everything was either damp or frozen. Dutch and Miss Grimshaw kept them all as busy as they could shoring up the remains of the town and tending to the daily needs of the camp, but it was hard going, even for those who had weathered such winters before. The ripples of Blackwater and their desperate flight still lapped against them all, the gaps in the gang’s structure like wounds still healing.

Charles kept mostly to himself, bivouacking in a small cabin that was mostly dry and didn’t have too many holes in, as much because he was still finding his footing in the group as for practical reasons. He had few stories of Jenny and Mac and Davey to share, few memories of other jobs gone south to help ease the sting, so he hung back. Like a lone wolf waiting at the edges of a new pack, he knew it would go easier if he let the group adjust to him first. 

He wasn't particularly surprised when Arthur decided to seek him out. The man was more considerate than he liked to let himself admit; Charles still had the little tin as proof of that. He was making use of it, in fact, when a rap at the door and a billow of cold air resolved itself into Arthur's wide-shouldered form. 

Arthur grunted, apparently pleased to see Charles working the ointment into his palm by the light of his lantern and a small and rather smoky fire. He kicked the snow from his boots as he entered, dropping his hat onto a half-collapsed bench. 

"Hey Arthur," Charles greeted him, half rising from his sitting position. "You need me for something?"

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. 

"Nah, siddown," he said, and pulled a bottle out from inside his jacket. "Figured you might need some company. And I wanted to get away from Dutch's goddamn snorin’. Man sounds like a bear with a stomach ache." 

He proffered the bottle, which turned out to be the kind of gutrot moonshine favoured by citizens of rural mining towns. Charles took it, settling back down beside the lantern on the floor. Arthur dropped down next to him, pulling off his gloves and holding out his hands to the fire. 

Charles uncorked the bottle and winced at the reek of strong liquor that immediately rose up from it. 

"Pretty sure this is gonna kill at least one of us," he pointed out, before helping himself to an experimental swallow. It burned all the way down but at least it was better than feeling cold. He passed the bottle to Arthur, trying and failing to suppress a cough at the harsh taste.

Arthur accepted it with a wry smile. He tilted the bottle in Charles’ direction. "Cheers."

"How’s John?" Charles asked as Arthur drank. He leaned over to throw another pine log onto the fire. Curls of resinous smoke immediately began to rise from it. The wood was too wet to burn cleanly, but they had little choice. The wind outside was beginning to pick up, whistling through the gaps in the rafters.

Arthur scowled, but Charles judged it to be a result of the moonshine rather than his question. "He’ll live," he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist and setting the bottle down on the floor between them. The firelight caught and glowed on his hair and beard.

Charles nodded, returning to the task of ministering to his injured hand. The snap of the fire and the whining wind rose to fill the silence between them, somehow both comforting and discordant. Somewhere outside a horse whinnied then fell quiet.

Charles felt Arthur’s measuring gaze as he rubbed the ointment into his healing skin. 

"You ain’t puttin’ enough of that stuff on," Arthur suggested slowly. He held out his own hand. "C’mere." 

Charles looked up at him, puzzled, then at his hand. The wide, callused palm and square, strong fingers. After a moment he realised that Arthur wanted to help. 

Cautiously, he proffered his injured hand. Arthur took it, his grip firm but not unkind. He turned Charles’ hand so the palm was facing upwards and reached over for the tin of ointment, scooping a little out and smearing it over Charles’ palm with his fingers. Charles flinched a little as the touch reawakened the pain of the wound, gritting his teeth. 

"Yeah, see, that’s better," Arthur murmured, concentrating on his work. His fingers drew circles over Charles’ palm and down to his wrist where the burn was shallower but by no means fully healed. "Otherwise it won’t do its work right."

The smell of the ointment rose between them, medicinal and clean, chased by the earthy smell of the boar grease and the heady breath of the moonshine. Arthur’s fingertips continued to move over Charles’ palm, pushing the ointment deep into the new skin. 

Charles studied the lines on Arthur’s brow and the brushstrokes of shadows in the hollow of his throat, the pain of the injury beginning to fade, replaced by a slow thrumming pleasure that increased with each sweep of Arthur’s fingers across his palm, each circle seeming to echo through his body.

He didn’t realise how caught up he’d been in the sensation until Arthur glanced up, meeting his eyes with an intensity that felt like a sweet shock. 

In that moment Charles discovered two things simultaneously. One, that he was more aroused than he had been in a long time. And two, that this was almost certainly the outcome that Arthur wanted, had been driving towards since he arrived, and had probably been planning for a while.

He licked his lips, feeling his quick breathing and quicker heartbeat, almost a pain in his chest. But he didn’t pull his hand away. And discovered a third thing: he wanted this too.

Arthur traced one more circle over Charles’ skin, then slowly -- achingly slowly -- raised it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the center of his palm. A flick of his tongue made Charles hiss out his breath. Arthur smiled against him, pleased.

"I've been thinkin’ about you owin’ me," he murmured, lowering but not letting go of Charles' hand. His thumb skated over Charles’ ointment-slick palm, making his meaning clear.

"I've been thinkin’ about it too," Charles admitted in a thick voice. "I guess I didn't realise you would want.. what I wanted."

Arthur smiled again, his expression proud and lazy as a cougar lying on a rock, surveying all the world that was his. Charles noticed -- not the first time -- the grey-green of his eyes, like pebbles in a forest stream.

"Then maybe you ain't as good at observin’ as you think you are." He leaned forward, reaching up with fingers that smelled of crushed herbs to gently push the hair back from Charles’ forehead. "When it comes to people that want you." 

Charles drew in a breath that only shook a little. He lifted his free hand to loosen the tie that held his long hair back, letting it fall over his shoulders. He felt suddenly nervous -- he wasn’t used to this slow seduction. In his experience this sort of thing was done quickly, furtively, men lingering a little too long on a handshake, or leaving certain signs by certain stable doors, and then bruising grips and fumbled groping in the darkness of a stall or a cheap room. There was rarely any talk and even fewer touches that weren't about getting each other to that foregone conclusion as quickly as possible.

But here now, this was Arthur, a man he knew and was quickly coming to respect. A man who perhaps wasn't looking for anything except a bit of warmth on a cold night, but who was still taking his time nevertheless. 

Arthur shifted on the rough floor, almost knocking over the bottle of moonshine, moving close enough to thread his fingers appreciatively into Charles' hair. He brushed it back from Charles' neck, then leaning in replaced it with his lips.

Charles gasped, unable to help himself. He felt and heard Arthur chuckle against his skin.

"If I'd known you were this easy to please I woulda done this weeks ago," he murmured, moving in closer and sliding one hand around Charles’ waist. Charles responded in kind, putting his arm across Arthur's back and enjoying the large solid weight of him, the vitality and presence of his body so close.

"It's.. ah.. it's been a while," Charles sighed, his voice catching as Arthur's kisses became more firm, teeth and tongue and heat against his throat.

"Mmmhm," Arthur purred. "I can tell." A touch of fingertips across the crotch of his britches, tracing the outline of Charles’ rising erection. Charles bit back a yelp, then let it out in a shaky exhalation as the fingertips flattened to a palm, smoothing down over his cock, rubbing gently through the fabric. He couldn't help his hips rising a little to meet it.

"Arthur, if you keep doing that, I'm -- " Charles began, and was rewarded by a low rumble of laughter from Arthur. 

"Not yet you ain't," he growled, his rough promise one of the most erotic things Charles had ever heard. 

Arthur's fingers were moving over his trousers, fumbling at the leather ties that held them up. Charles moved to help him, and then Arthur was kneeling in front of him, tugging them down onto his thighs, along with the long woollen underwear that was necessary for winter riding. The cold nipped at Charles’ skin, tempering the heat that was rising between them. His cock nevertheless bobbed against his stomach, hard and needy.

Arthur made a throaty noise, clearly pleased at the sight of Charles half-sprawled and exposed. He reached out to rub his thumbs over the soft rise of Charles’ hips, his touch skating over the seam of his thighs, as Charles had seen him doing when they paused beside a particularly finely striated piece of rock. Appreciative, curious, a little covetous in that way that artists could be. The sight and feel of it, of being a fine and beautiful object under Arthur’s skilled hands, sent a throb of desire through Charles’ body. He wanted more of that, more of making Arthur look that way. He also wanted Arthur’s mouth, right now. 

"Arthur," he whispered, his voice cracking a little. They were both breathing hard, wisps of fog on the cold air. "Please."

Arthur seemed to get the message. He glanced up and caught Charles’ eye, a boyish grin belying the lines and scars criss-crossing his face. Moving so he was almost between Charles' legs, he leaned down and gave the head of Charles’ cock a long, slow lick. 

Charles hissed out a pent up breath, sliding his injured hand over the wide expanse of Arthur's shoulders. 

"You're a fucking tease, Arthur Morgan," Charles huffed, threading his fingers into Arthur's straw-blond hair, taking his own turn to marvel at the beauty of the man before him.

Arthur responded by dipping his head lower, his tongue and lips a wet and almost searing heat on Charles’ chilled skin. Charles shivered, barely resisting the urge to push further into Arthur's throat. Then Arthur's hand joined his mouth, and he was moving rhythmically, skilfully, drawing out a low moan from Charles’ lips. Charles fisted his hand in Arthur’s hair, ignoring the twinge of pain in his palm, giving in to the urge to lift his hips in time with Arthur’s ministrations and fucking himself against Arthur’s tongue and lips and cool damp fingers. 

"I can’t --" he gasped on a heaving breath, "Arthur, if you keep going, I’m gonna.. for sure -- oh, fuck, Arthur."

Arthur hummed something in his throat but drew back all the same. He peered up at Charles, the lust in his eyes something sleepy and heavy, like the arrival of a summer storm. He licked his lips, stroked his hand sedately up and down Charles’ cock, thoughtful.

"All right," he said, heaving himself up onto his knees, "all right. Come here now." 

He moved up Charles’ body, one hand gently pushing Charles back and down, the other easing his legs apart, pulling his clothes down over one boot. Charles let him guide them both, grateful, twining his arms around Arthur’s neck as his knees rose beside Arthur’s hips. He knew enough of what Arthur was thinking to feel a keen thrill of anticipation and trepidation, as sharp and strong as the moonshine.

Close to, Arthur was a weight and warmth and the smell of tobacco, wool, old leather and horse sweat, a presence that blocked out the whole world besides the two of them. Arthur’s breath was hot on Charles’ cheek as he fumbled one-handed with his own belt and britches. 

"You.. you done this before?"

Arthur paused for a split second that told Charles everything he needed to know. "Um. Once or twice."

"Go slow. Slower than you think you need to." 

That drew a laugh from Arthur, a soft noise to go with the sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor. "I ain't gonna be able to promise anythin', but I'll try for the sake of having to watch you sit your horse tomorrow."

"You're a real kind man, Morgan." 

It was only half a joke, starting out sly and ended up meaning more than Charles intended once Arthur lifted his head and met his gaze, close enough that the fog of their breath mingled between them. Charles could feel him touching himself down between his legs as he lay back on the floor, bumping the back of his hand against Charles' ass, a couple of long slow strokes. But even with that anticipation between them, he paused above him, a faint line drawing itself down between his eyebrows.

"You ain't gotta say things like that. I'm already here."

Charles shifted his hand back to brush a few strands of hair out of Arthur's eyes, trying to let his touch speak as much as his words had. "I know. I want to say it anyway."

Arthur ducked his head a little at that, shaking it back and forth almost like a bear trying to figure out a scent, then hitched himself up a little between Charles' legs. 

"I'm gonna fuck you now --"

"Wait. Get the goddamn boar grease, Arthur."

In the end they had to go slower even than Charles realised, mostly because Arthur had to keep stopping or lose it completely, leaning into him with his face buried in the crook of Charles' neck and trembling all over like a horse run to the end of its endurance, cursing a low and constant stream as he pushed inside of him inch by careful inch. Charles was both flattered and amazed to have such a response from a man he always counted as worldly wise, who he'd figured must have had his fair share of encounters. To find such sensitivity and gentleness in each moment seemed like a gift he wasn't sure he'd earned, and as Arthur slid into him he cried out in gratefulness as much as sensation, not caring who or what overheard in the camp.

Eventually their bodies joined, the wiry hair on Arthur's stomach tickling the innermost places of Charles' thighs and the both of them sweating and breathing hard, the smell of the boar grease and pungent herbs strong between them. 

"I need you to.. to not stop moving." Charles' voice emerged from him almost on a whine, his head back against the cold wooden floor, arms around Arthur's shoulders and his weight leaning over him, Arthur seeming to fill every part of his world, stretching him almost to the limit, his muscles shaking with need.

With a grunt against his shoulder, Arthur obeyed him, starting long and slow at first as promised, forearms pressed against the floor either side of Charles' head, testing the usefulness of the boar grease. Charles' own cock slid against Arthur's belly with each rock of Arthur's hips, achingly hard still, a challenge to him to stop himself reaching between them and finding release.

"You feel so.. so goddamn good, Charles," Arthur huffed into his ear as he began to speed up, the slap of his hips against Charles' ass sounding both delicious and obscene. He felt that they must be making enough noise to wake the whole place up even through the howling wind and the snow; somehow the idea of Dutch and John and old Pearson having to listen to their coupling, the whole gang knowing what was going on in their midst, made it even better, and he didn't hold back on the noises that Arthur's thrusts drew from him. 

Charles slid his hands over the heaving topography of Arthur's back, the hot damp fabric of his shirt soothing his aching palm, down to his bare ass, cold skin and muscles working as he pounded into Charles. Arthur flinched a little as he felt that touch, but kept going as Charles gripped him, pulling him in further, needing as much as Arthur could give and more. Heat and pressure were rising inside Charles like a newly tapped spring, tightening in his gut and balls, making his entire body clench and release with Arthur's increasingly desperate rhythm.

"You.. ah.. fuck.. don't.. stop," Charles panted, each word punctuated by a smack of Arthur's body against him. Encouraged, Arthur snarled, shifting an arm up where he was leaning against the floor to knot his fingers in Charles' hair, tugging his head sideways to kiss and suck on the side of his throat as his other hand found the back of Charles' thigh and slid into the crook of his knee, pushing his leg up almost to his chest, the new angle making Charles howl with pleasure. 

"I'm.. gonna.. I.." Arthur growled, his body shuddering.

"Do it," Charles managed to choke out, just as close to the edge, and all Arthur needed was that permission, the movements of his hips a driving piston, stuttering and erratic, as he roared and keened out something broken and wordless that clenched around Charles' heart as heat and wetness flooded him, running down the crack of his ass to pool on the floor. The sensation of Arthur's release pulled Charles along and he let it go, like releasing a snared bird from cupped hands, as his own body rose up and he came with a shout, the world disappearing around him in great shivering waves, noticing as if from a distance Arthur's hand around his cock and his own name whispered in his ear as he spilled out against him.

The world came back in small ways. The feel of the floorboards beneath his head and his aching shoulders, the smell of sex and the forest in summertime, a throbbing pain on the side of his neck. The cold seeping in, chilling wet skin; the distant whistle of the wind around the camp, the snap of embers and dying coals. A feeling of emptiness and the low throb of used muscles. On the heels of that he realised Arthur had pulled out of him and was carefully wiping his belly and the insides of his thighs with a scrap of fabric. It tickled. Charles twitched his leg and giggled, feeling drunk and loose and relaxed.

"Made a damn mess," Arthur groused, though he didn't sound displeased.

"Your fault, Morgan," Charles pointed out, reaching out to paw at whatever part of Arthur he could reach, which turned out to be his sleeve. He tugged at it. "C'mere."

Obedient, Arthur leaned over him, not setting his weight on him this time. Backlit and gilt-edged from the light of the fire, rumpled and softened, a wary tightness betraying itself by being gone from the set of his shoulders. Charles reached up to cup the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like salt and moonshine and the wind on the snow. When, after a long few breaths, Arthur pulled back, the look in his eyes seemed to Charles both confused and grateful. 

"Guess I don't mind owing you," Charles murmured. 

Arthur grinned. "Guess I don't either," he replied, and leaned down for another kiss.


End file.
